


Kiss Me Once

by Lasgalendil



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Peggy Carter, Cartenelli - Freeform, Coming Out, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Fuck you queerbaiting, I didn't like Agent Carter season 2, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Peggy Carter, Peggy Carter's awesome hats, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Podfic Welcome, Stucky - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering, Wet Dream, so I fixed it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:52:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was 1946, and Steve Rogers was dead, as dead as Barnes before him. But <em>Angie—? </em> Angie Martinelli was still very much alive.</p><p>Perhaps Peggy was queer, then. But queer or not, she'd be damned if she'd be a coward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiss Me Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is dead. Angie isn't.

She had been…busy.

 _Lonely_ , another voice would say. _You’ve been lonely._

But whether it was her brother’s, whether it was Steve Rogers', her darling, whether it was her own, innocent voice lost long ago in childhood, her mother’s, or yet an unnamed another’s she couldn’t say.

But Peggy Carter had been busy. The Third Reich may have fallen, and Japan surrendered soon after and at what cost, but there were enemies everywhere, enemies of the tentative peace that had come out of so much horror. A fragile, nascent peace. A peace Steve Rogers had died for.

…and to be frankly honest, she had thought a piece of her had died with him. But tonight she woke up on sweat-soaked sheets (not Howard’s, never Howard’s, good lord she’d had Jarvis dispose of them immediately and bought clean, fresh ones of her own) with a name caught in her gasping throat, her clit throbbing and muscles clenching, wet as as bedraggled cat come in from the rain.

But it wasn’t…hadn’t…well. It wasn’t _Steve_.

And she thought, horribly, desperately of Barnes, the glances he gave when he thought Steve, when he thought _she_ hadn't been looking, and if Steve’s friend was a queer and the very best man she knew either didn’t know or didn’t care, well. It hadn’t been her place to say. Steve Rogers had been a God among men and loved her with every ounce of his overlarge, rheumatic heart, but even Margaret Elizabeth Carter held no doubts the hell she’d be cast to if a blue discharge found its way into Barnes’ hands and Steve ever guessed the culprit had been her.

Queer. Homosexual. Moral failing. Sexual inversion. Mortal Sin. Unnatural lust.

 _And oh. Oh, Barnes. Oh you poor dear_. She’d never thought, never _considered_ —

James Barnes had _loved_ Steve, had loved him as much as she ever did, perhaps more. That great fool had said she was the first, first to ever pay him mind, to see beyond his sickly exterior to the man he was—had always been—inside. But the truth was kindly Abraham Erskine had seen it first, had selected him…and Steve Rogers would never have survived so long so sickly if another hadn’t tended to him long before. Everything her Steve was, his very life, she owed to James Barnes before. 

Oh, Barnes, you poor, poor fool. Steve Rogers had been healed, and whole, and along came Peggy Carter, the woman Steve Rogers had always aspired to, who he could marry, grow old with, have and raise children…it was no wonder Barnes had slunk into the shadows, no longer the vibrant man Steve once knew.

“You don’t know him like I do, Peggy,” Steve had said. “Bucky’s the swellest fella I know!”

And Peggy was crying. Crying and coming still, salty tears in her mouth, teeth biting down against the flesh of her arm to stop the sobs from escaping. Oh, Barnes. Oh, James, you poor, poor fool. You never told him. You retreated. You died.

…and so did Steve.

And Peggy Carter was lying in a pool of sweat and her own musky scent, alone and cold and ashamed. It was 1946, and Steve Rogers was dead, as dead as Barnes before him. But _Angie—?_ Angie Martinelli was still very much alive.

 _You loved him_ , Peggy’s breath hitched as the sobs and shaking stopped, as she came down. _You loved him_.

And—

_ForgivemeforgivemeohJamesforgiveme._

Because she knew that voice now, the one inside her head, the voice that consoled her through the lonely nights, long days, to her keep her chin up, keep smiling through, made every day worth living, worth dying for.

 _You’ve been lonely, English,_ that voice said. And that voice was _Angie’s_. 

_You've been lonely, English, and you don't gotta._ Angie Martinelli, the woman she loved, was only a bedroom, a phone call away. Well. She would not be Barnes. She wouldn't die not knowing, couldn't live forever wondering.

“English—?” Angie Cartenelli sat up, hair bound up under a cap of pin curls. “It’s awful late—“ she yawned, then saw the look on Peggy’s face.

Oh, and what a look it must be. She’d seen it a hundred thousand times in Barnes’ eyes. Sadness. Hunger. Joy. _Love_. How had she ever thought anything but—?

“English?” Angie asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

Peggy sat on the edge of the bedside. Bit her lips. Licked them. “I’m going to try something.”

“Alright, English,” Angie smiled, “you been drinking?”

“I don’t wish you to feel—pressured—in anyway, but,” Peggy took a deep breath. “Well.”

She leaned forward. Laid a kiss, a light, chaste kiss, on Angie’s lips.

“What the hell, English!” Angie guffawed.

“Nothing,” Peggy stood. “Nothing at all.”

“Aw, English, come back—“ Angie grabbed her hand. “What’s a matter? You lonely? Plenty of men out there,” Angie winked. “Let’s go out dancing sometime.”

“It’s—it’s not,” Peggy sat again, smoothed out the wrinkles in her nightgown, unable to meet Angie’s earnest eyes.

“Ain’t no harm,” Angie shrugged. “We all get lonely. We all get lonely somtimes. You wouldn’t believe the things people got up to in the Griffith. Everybody knows, just no one talks about it, is all. We can pretend,” she giggled shyly. “I don’t mind. I’m an actress, remember? We can pretend, if you wanna.”

Peggy turned away. Bit her lip. Raised her closed eyes to the ceiling and felt the tears of shame begin to fall.

“Oh, English…” Angie said, laid a hand on her shaking shoulders, pulled her close in a motherly, a sisterly, a friendly embrace. And oh, but that stung worse than that bite of three bullets, felt like Steve choosing a martyr’s death over a dance hall, a future, a life with her. “What’s wrong? Ain’t you ever pretended for nobody before?”

“Well, you see,” Peggy began, and pulled away. Opened her raw, aching eyes and forced herself to face it. The truth would out, and it would be ugly, but Peggy would be damned if she went without a fight. “Angie. Angie-darling, I don’t wish to pretend.”

She felt—oh, God, she felt it, saw it, the blinking, the of gaping lips, soft swell and swallow of throat, that awful moment Angie _knew_ , the moment the words made sense, the moment she’d shamed, she’d damned herself past redemption, lost the most precious thing she had left in a world without Steve Rogers.

“Oh, English,” Angie pulled her fretting hands up to her full lips, and kissed them. “English, with me you don’t gotta.”


	2. Then Kiss Me Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy takes a posting to Los Angeles.

Chief Jack Thompson of the United States Strategic Scientific Reserve was a buffoon. A competent buffoon, to be sure, but a buffoon nonetheless.

“You wish me to go the Los Angeles,” Peggy confirmed.

“Sousa requested you,” Thompson stepped closer, brows uplifted. “Personally.”

And perhaps Daniel had. But that tone belied him. “And did Chief Sousa say that, or have you simply told me what you believed I wished to hear?”

Jack choked, flummoxed. “Marge—“

“Peggy, Chief Thompson. Or _Agent_ ,” she cut across him. “And I for one happen to know that Daniel is doing well for himself as section chief and is quite happily engaged, thank you. Whatever it is you’re trying to do, I suggest you cease. Immediately.”

“Engaged?” Thompson frowned. “To be married?”

“If you know of some other form, happily enlighten me”

“So Sousa’s getting married, well,” he shrugged his shoulders, scratched the back of his head. “Huh. You surprise me, Marge. Always figured you’d put up a fight.”

“I’ve been to war, Jack,” Peggy explained. “I wish to fight no longer. And certainly not for love.”

Jack Thompson blinked, far too hopeful. “So does that mean you’re—“

“Whatever it is you’re about to ask, don’t.”

But buffoon or no, Jack Thompson was the Chief, and Peggy was an Agent. She'd divorced her own country for this one long ago, and if that now meant going to Los Angeles, it meant going to Los Angeles. She only hoped Daniel and Violet would be as warm and welcoming in person as they were during their long correspondence. Daniel had been a friend, a good friend, and only a good friend, but well. Even Peggy Carter would find it hard to forgive a woman who'd broken his heart, however inadvertently.

Suitcase. Hatbox. Ah, yes. And that was the tricky part, wasn’t it?

“Such a pretty face shouldn’t be so long, English,” Angie sauntered in, freshly made-up from yet another audition. With Howard’s new home, well, there had hardly seemed much point in Angie remaining at the Automat any longer, but Broadway had yet to open her arms. “What’sa matter?”

“I can’t decide,” Peggy said honestly. “The cloche, or the suiter?”

“Think I can help you,” Angie pulled the veiled suiter away by the seam, placed it daintily on her own coiffed curls, and struck a pose. “What’cha think, English?”

_What’cha think, Buck? Ain’t she swell?_

“Well, it’s certainly prettier than a pig in lipstick,” Peggy intoned, as dry as Barnes would say.

“Shut the front door!” Angie laughed, a truly wonderful sound. “Peggy Carter—? Makin’ jokes! Why I never! Don’t think I can call you English anymore!”

“Yes, quite,” Peggy smiled. “I do believe my passport has just been revoked.”

“Well,” Angie’s eyes held a now-familiar mischeivous sparkle as she shed her white blouse, one mother-of-pearl button at a time. “What about now?”

Peggy frowned as though giving considerable thought. “It’s passable, I suppose.”

Angie shimmied her plump legs out of her skirt, clad only in stockings, garter and her brassiere. “What about now?”

“I can’t say it’s a definite improvement.”

“Golly, gotta call my agent,” Angie rolled her bright eyes theatrically. “She didn’t say it’d be such a tough crowd.”

But Peggy only settled against the bed, content to watch. Angela Carinelli, regardless of the opinions of the Broadway elite, was a born performer. “Well,” she suggested. “Perhaps you should consider revealing more of your considerable skills.”

  
“Considerable?” Angie laughed. “That’ll be the day. You know Arlene French said I got turned down ‘cause I didn’t have the tits. The _tits!_ It’s a radio play, can you believe it!”

 _Ah, well. A bullet well dodged, my darling_. Nurse Betty Carver was hardly worth her time. “Well, from where I’m sitting they do sound wholly inadequate.”

Angie snorted, tugged the fabric, her soft breasts suddenly freed, swinging gently against her bare skin. “And now?”

Peggy shrugged, the shoulder pads of her plaid suit coat catching. “Not entirely unagreaeble.”

The clasps on the garter belt came next, followed by the stockings and belt themselves. The bed shuddered suddenly under her weight, and Angie slunk across on hands and knees, bare arse in the air, breasts bounding with every painstakingly slow movement. Peggy felt her face grow immeasurably hot. “You like what you see, English?”

Peggy refrained from licking her lips. “Darling, I fail to see what you might wish to achieve wearing only lipstick and my hat.”

“Then keep watchin’,” Angie winked, and ran a hand down her own pale, pert breasts, plump belly, past her navel, sliding through the soft indent of her hips to the thicket of her waiting hair, and _groaned_.

“ _Angela Catherine Martinelli!”_ Peggy scolded, but her own heart had quickened, and oh, God, yes, she was wet and aching. Angie writhed her hips, settled herself onto two of her own slender fingers, pumping slick and wet, and suddenly the sighs of Angie's shaking breaths, the swish of snatching hair against her hands, and the smooth rush of skin rubbing skin were the only sounds…and well. Peggy Carter had the terrible feeling there would be no further packing tonight.

“Only you,” Angie groaned later when they lay panting and entwined.

“Only I what, pet?” Peggy ran a finger under her soft jaw.

“Only you would use my _Confirmation name_ while we were fucking,” Angie huffed, blowing a stray curl from her face.

“We were hardly fucking!” Peggy argued, and she would before a judge. “You did that all that by yourself.”

But Angie only grinned, eyes crinkling up in pleasure. “Well, now. We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” Peggy had never quite managed to get her own clothes off, and there was something quite debauched about the picture of it, Angie naked and beautiful as the day she was born, and herself, still in a pantsuit, only her hastily untucked shirttails and ruined curls to show for it. Her lipstick as well, Peggy thought with a smirk. It had found its way onto another set of lips entirely.

_C'mon, Rogers, spill. What was it like? Whadda do? She scream like a cat?_

_I uh, I did like…like you told me._

_Uh huh. And then you fucked her, right? Please tell me you actually fucked her._

_Well—_

_Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Jeremiah and Jehoshaphat! Only you, pal._

_Only me what, Buck?_

_Only honest lil' Stevie Rogers could spent the night with a girl and still be a blushin’ virgin come mornin’._

_And here I thought a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell, Peggy frowned in teasing consternation. Steve’s face went white, distinctly different from the flushed face and mused hair she'd held between her thighs last night._

_Yeah. Sure. You could call it kissin’, Barnes shrugged, as America’s Star Spangled Man With a Plan died of mortification on the spot. Barnes, ever helpful, composed a touching epitaph:_

  
_Here lies Rogers, couldn’t dance,_  
_Shoulda fucked her when he had the chance._

 

“What’s got you so thoughtful all a sudden?” Angie asked as she shucked Peggy’s pantsuit down her long legs.

“Oh, nothing,” Peggy sighed. “Just…memories.”

“You leavin’, English?” Angie asked, gliding on top her, fingers brushing her hips.

“I’m…going away,” Peggy admitted, unable to meet her eyes.

“Phone company keeps you awful busy,” Angie drawled, lowering her breasts to dance gently against Peggy’s own. Peggy, for her part, did her best not to groan from pain or pleasure. Her nipples were still firm but chaffed and raw. And that, she mused, was what one reaped for playing through the rough fabric of a pantsuit, blouse, and brassiere.

“You a real workin’ gal, now, English?” Angie brought her lips down to breathe against Peggy’s neck, sucking kisses into the line of her pulse. “How’re you ever gonna find a man, raise a family if you never settle down?”

Peggy snorted, and Angie dug a clever hand against her ribs in her distraction. She was punished dearly for it. “Oy!” Angie cried as Peggy flipped them hard.

“Oh, trust me, darling. It’s not finding one that’s difficult…” Peggy smiled down at her, wrists pinned, hips trapped between Peggy’s thighs, laid spread and helpless. “It’s finding one worth keeping that I’ve found to be rather taxing.”

“Well, with moves like that, who needs one?” Angie cried. “Jeez, English!”

Peggy relented, but Angie pulled her down flush against her anyways, noses, lips, foreheads bumping, bodies brushing from hips to sternum. Angie sighed at the sudden warmth, but her upturned face went sad. “How long you gonna be gone?”

Peggy leaned in for a lingering kiss. “I don’t know.”

“They keep you awful busy,” Angie frowned. “For a _phone company_.”

And that was it, wasn’t it. Angie was certainly clever enough to deduce there was more to Peggy’s work than met the eye…but she was also precious enough to warrant protection. That meant hiding, that meant not lies but dishonesty nonetheless. It meant late nights and not making it home by nine, she thought of Edwin Jarvis fondly. “There are some things, my darling, about my work which you can never know.”

  
“Whatcha take me for, English, some sort of spy?” Angie laughed, nose wrinkling. “Why you gotta be so dramatic?”

Peggy sighed. “Corporate espionage, darling. You never know who might be watching.”

"Well,” Angie canted her hips up welcomingly. “Whoever they are, let’s give ‘em a show.”

Peggy snorted and raised a brow. “And _I’m_ the dramatic one.”

“Aw, honey,” Angie purred. “I’m gonna make you scream.”


End file.
